


miracle aligner

by DylanOhbrien



Category: Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter/Funhaus RPF
Genre: Dom/sub Undertones, Fake AH Crew, Female Jack, Gunshot Wounds, Identity Porn, M/M, One Night Stands, Public Blow Jobs, Public Hand Jobs, but like really light undertones
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-19
Updated: 2016-10-19
Packaged: 2018-08-23 09:14:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,121
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8322289
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DylanOhbrien/pseuds/DylanOhbrien
Summary: Ryan meets Geoff during his first night in Los Santos, when they’ve somehow made their way into the alley of a seedy bar and Ryan is coming all over the man’s hand. Things only go downhill from there.





	

The name and reputation form completely without Ryan meaning for them to. The Vagabond, they call him. It’s a name to only be whispered in the darkest parts of night when you can be sure that there is no figure looming in the pitch black. Or so they say, anyway.

Ryan isn’t particularly fond of the nomenclature, but he has come to terms with it; and in any case, he can’t deny that it’s rather fitting. The better part of Ryan’s life has been spent on the run. Since childhood, spent all but drowning in the thick Georgia heat and believing himself to be much bigger than the small town life he was leading, Ryan hasn’t been able to stay in one place for very long. He was naive back then; too full of life and the belief that he could actually make a difference.

Well, when you get down to the nitty gritty, Ryan is making a difference, isn’t he? True it may not be under the circumstances he used to dream about, but still. It’s something. It may be dark and violent and tragic, but it’s something that Ryan can call his own.

And when he ran, Ryan hadn’t thought he could very well spend his entire life just running and running and running. Yet here he is. It’s been years ― decades even ― and he’s still running. He’s been in the smallest of towns in the middle of Nowhere, USA and is much too reminded of his home for his pleasure. He’s been in the largest cities in the countries, where the skyscrapers loom over his head and no one ever sleeps. Ryan certainly doesn’t.

It’s Los Santos this time around, where the violence seems endless and you always need to watch your back. It would be the perfect playground for the Vagabond, if he was here for pleasure rather than business. But he isn’t. Sad to say, but Ryan is currently living it up in a sleazy motel in the bad side of town because he’s hired muscle for some shitty crew for the next couple of days. Whenever he’s in a town on business, Ryan makes a point to go on a murder break so as to risk the likelihood of getting into trouble with the law or other crews.

So, after a couple days of bar hopping and aimlessly roaming the streets, Ryan finds himself completely bored out of his mind with this city. Yes, it’s violent and brutal and every hour someone’s death is going by unreported, but Ryan is just _bored_.

This happens sometimes, when the thrill of the job just isn’t enough to satisfy him. And this one in particular is dreadfully boring. He’s left with a thrumming in his chest, fingers clawing at his rib cage trying to break free, and without any respite for it all.

Usually, when things get this bad and he’s on a murder break, Ryan will hang up the mask for a night and swap it out for a pair of tight jeans and fitted button up before going to the sleaziest bar he can find. The goal? Sex with a complete stranger. Maybe even two.

Yet even now, as he sits at the edge of a random bar, nursing a drink in his hands ― a rarity for him, these days ― he’s still unsatisfied. It’s infuriating.

It’s quite a shame he’s on a murder break. The quickest way to silent the humming underneath his skin was to kill someone who happened to inconvenience him in the slightest. God, now that was satisfying. In any case, Ryan is here on business, and everyone in Los Santos seemed to fight back with fists flying and guns blazing. It was best to not try and set anyone of by accidentally killing the wrong person. So, murder break. At least while he’s in Los Santos.

This fucking job has him itching all around, and Ryan already knows that he won’t be able to soothe it with a little bit of self loving. No, he needs a random body to relieve his stress and unrest on. But fuck, no one is even remotely catching his interest. Everyone here is just a face in a crowd, indistinguishable from each other and so, so boring.

A pretty girl in a skimpy skirt wobbles past him, giggling and tipsy. Ryan gives her a once over before letting her pass. She isn’t what she’s looking for tonight. Women are soft and pliant, and usually it’s up to Ryan to play the more dominant role, and he finds himself uninterested in that prospect. So, a man it is.

Ryan clutches his drink a little tighter. Fuck, this is irritating him.

Almost an hour passes by with no luck. Ryan is well into his fifth drink when he finally considers leaving and walking through the Los Santos streets in hope that some idiot would try and mug him or something. That way he could at least relieve some tension by punching them repeatedly in the face until he hears bone crunch under his fist. Not kill them, of course ― _murder beak_ , after all ― but leave them on the brink, maybe. He’s mulling in his thoughts, eyes glancing around the room but not truly seeing anything, and that’s when he notices them.

It’s a lazy pair of icy blue eyes that stare at him casually from the other end of the bar, unblinking underneath dark unruly hair plastered to his forehead. The man seems to be watching him casually, languidly, with what seems to be no intentions of getting up anytime soon. He looks completely exhausted, but there’s something about him. Something that makes Ryan think perhaps this man thinks himself above everyone else in the bar; something almost... dangerous.

Those eyes, and that air of superiority, remind Ryan ― if only for a moment ― of himself. So when his legs seem to move of their own accord and he’s sliding off his bar stool and moving over to the man, he doesn’t think much of it.

At the sight of Ryan getting up, the man’s eyebrows raise, and something akin to perhaps surprise or amusement fill his eyes for a brief moment before they’re carefully concealed. The brief warmth reminds Ryan of the ocean before they turn back into glaciers. A tattooed hand wrapped around a glass of dark alcohol comes up to his lips, and Ryan watches him drink, throat bobbing when he swallows. His eyes are pinned to Ryan the entire time, and a shiver of anticipation runs up his spine. Oh, he _wants_ this man.

Even for a Saturday night the bar is packed. Ryan had been lucky enough to find refuge in a corner stool before things got too hectic, but by now things have grown pretty rowdy. Lady Luck seems to be on his side for once however, because as soon as he makes his way towards the man with the blue eyes, the patron that had been in the booth right next to him slides out of the seat and makes a beeline for the exit. Before anyone else has a chance to fill the seat, Ryan takes the opportunity to hop into it. He spares a brief moment to glance at the guy and stare into his eyes before he’s looking away and calling the bartender for another drink.

There’s no words exchanged between him and this man, but he’s sure they would have been drowned out in the deafening music and loud voices anyway. Next to him, the man shifts forwards, and Ryan finds them flushed together at the arms. Out of the corner of his eye, Ryan can see the guy pulling out his phone and start tapping at it furiously.

Ryan goes back to his own drink and thinks, _Alright, I can play the long con_. Whatever it takes to have that man’s pants halfway down his thighs and Ryan on his knees in front of him. There’s a shuffle of movement at Ryan’s side as the guy shoves his phone back into his pocket a moment later, and then just as quickly there’s a tattooed hand jutting into his line of view. Ryan blinks down at it, and follows the arm until his eyes raise up to look into the man’s eyes and―yeah, just as intense.

The music fades into white noise.

“Hello?” Ryan starts, slowly reaching out and taking the man’s outstretched hand. He gives it a firm shake before pulling away, fingers curling around his drink again. His fingers tingle and the fire in his heart crackles.

The guy doesn’t miss a beat. “Just thought that you came all the way over here and it would’ve been a shame if neither of us said anything after you went through all that trouble.”

“Maybe I was just biding my time,” Ryan retorts just as quick. “Absence makes the heart grow fonder, after all.”

“I’d have nothing to be fond of unless you had said something,” the guy says lightly, voice teasing. “The name’s Geoff.”

“Ryan,” he responds, a little surprised to hear his true name pass his lips. In this city, there’s no telling if Geoff’s name is truly Geoff, and Ryan has no intention of finding that out. He purses his lips, glancing down at the man’s disheveled suit. The sleeves of his button up shirt are rolled up, revealing tattoos that start at his fingertips and bloom up towards the end of his arms. Ryan idly wonders where they end.

“So, Ryan,” Geoff starts, and his name rolls of his tongue like silk. “I don’t think I’ve seen you around the city before. What do you do for a living?”

Ryan raises a brow at Geoff’s upfront attitude. “Freelance work,” he answers tersely. “I’m in the city for a job for the next few days.”

Geoff’s curiosity seems peaked. “You’re like what, the mysterious stranger that just comes passing through the city, fucks a stranger, and then leaves, never to be seen again? Sounds hot.”

“I haven’t fucked anyone,” Ryan says. “Night’s still young, though.”

Geoff’s smile is fierce. “Do you want to?”

 

* * *

 

Somehow ― and Ryan isn’t particularly sure how they manage to accomplish it with the way that they’re getting personally acquainted with each other’s mouth ― Geoff manages to haul him off of the bar stool and suddenly they’re tripping over their own feet trying to get out of the bar. Ryan stays firmly attached to Geoff’s mouth the entire time, licking and nipping and not caring who the fuck is watching them. A small thrill runs down his spine at the thought of someone staring at their impropriety.

Cold air hits them as soon as they’re outside. Try as they might have, they never make it to Geoff’s car, or even manage to hail a taxi and rub each other off in the back seat like normal functioning adults. No, instead Geoff seems to come to a decision and drags him into the alley behind the bar. He’s shoving Ryan at his shoulders, and Ryan follows the push without a second thought. Then his back hits the wall, and Geoff is immediately pressing against him in the best way, every part of their bodies flushing together. There’s a sweet friction caused by Geoff grinding on him, hip to hip, and it makes Ryan sigh audibly.

Ryan’s hand come up to grip tightly against Geoff’s waist, fingers digging into flesh. Geoff’s mouth is on his in a flash, hard and frantic and all consuming. Ryan’s other hand comes up to curl around the back of Geoff’s neck, fingers tangling into messy hair, pulling him closer. There’s a tongue pressed to his lips, and Ryan opens his mouth in response, welcoming the warm heat from Geoff with enthusiasm. It’s intoxicating.

Geoff is brutally assaulting his mouth without any hint of stopping soon, and Ryan is revelling in it. Gone is that itch of unrest, replaced by a burning heat of Geoff’s touch. Somehow, Geoff’s leg manages to slot in between Ryan’s, hitching up until it’s pressing against Ryan cock, rubbing against it, causing a friction that makes Ryan let out a noise against Geoff’s mouth. He can feel the man’s lips twist into a smile against the kiss, and when he pulls back, Ryan’s mouth is wet and slick and he wants to chase Geoff’s mouth to the corners of the Earth.

“You like that?” Geoff asks, almost casually, lifting his leg just a little higher and applying just a little more pressure. He can feel his cock slowly hardening with the arousal pooling in his abdomen. Ryan nods silently, and watches with hungry eyes as Geoff’s hand start to travel downward, stopping to play at the waistband of Ryan’s jeans, twisting the button in between his fingers. “Can I?”

“You can,” Ryan responds, surprised to find his voice even, if only a little on the husky side. He can, _fuck_ , he can touch Ryan however the hell he pleases.

Geoff wastes no time. As soon as he has Ryan’s consent, he’s fumbling with the button and zipper, tucking his thumbs into the belt loops of his jeans and tugging them down just the slightest. Geoff’s palm comes up to press flat at the skin just underneath his navel before it’s sliding downward, venturing into Ryan’s boxers and wrapping around Ryan’s cock and―fuck. _Fuck_.

Ryan is putty in Geoff’s hands. It’s a strange notion ― or it would be if he’d ever told anyone about it ― that he likes to be more submissive whenever he’s having sex. Ryan supposes it’s because he spends most of his time living in his all-powerful persona of the Vagabond that switching things up gives him a bit of a thrill. There’s something about being lead and letting someone take control of the situation that fucking gets to him. He doesn’t care whether he’s being ridden or if he’s being fucked senseless into a mattress, Ryan just really loves the idea of being under someone.

Geoff seems to favor the opposite with the way he’s biting and nipping and sucking at Ryan’s mouth and flesh, fingers hot around his cock while he teases Ryan however he pleases. Ryan slumps against the wall, scraping his lower back against it roughly. He ignores the slight sting of pain in favor of thrusting into Geoff’s hand, frantic and erratic.

“Shit, kid, you’re unbelievable,” Geoff groans out, forehead leaning against Ryan's shoulder for a brief moment while he's stroking Ryan. And even through the fuzzy haze of arousal, Ryan feels little miffed about being called a kid.

“Not a kid,” Ryan manages in between Geoff’s touches and the wet kisses that are being pressed against his flesh and are just frying his brain completely.

“What was that?” Geoff asks nonchalantly, giving Ryan’s cock a small squeeze. His fingers idly run along the shaft, tracing veins and rubbing his head softly, precome making his fingers slicker than before. Geoff uses it to his advantage and goes back to stroking Ryan in his entirety with a newfound vigor.

“Not a kid,” Ryan repeats, and in the same breath he also says, “Do that again.”

“You’re a demanding one,” Geoff responds wryly, and complies, fingers working at Ryan’s cock with a slightly tighter grip than before.

The heat pooling in the pit of Ryan’s abdomen expands and expands the more Geoff runs his hand up and down Ryan, engulfing him in the wet heat. He can hear the slick sound of skin rubbing against skin and his heavy breathing cut through the deafening silence of the alleyway. Somehow Ryan’s hand has removed itself from Geoff’s side and is instead trying to dig into the wall to gain some sort of purchase. Geoff is leaving him feeling completely exposed, and Ryan fucking loves it.

It’s no surprise that he comes in Geoff’s expert hands, still blindly thrusting into his hand while Geoff is kissing him messily. They spend the next few minutes kissing against the wall, Geoff’s hand still around his cock, stroking him lazily and revelling in warm wetness. Ryan bucks against him lightly, hands coming up to the side of Geoff’s face to hold him in place.

When they finally break apart, Ryan finds himself staring into icy blue eyes that match his own in intensity.

Geoff slowly removes his hand, and Ryan glances down to see it slick and wet and covered in come. He brings his hand up to his face and flexes his fingers slightly, frowning at them slightly. “I’m getting way too old to be jerking some guy off in an alley, or at all, really. My fucking hand cramped up.”

Ryan, despite himself, finds his lips curling into a grin. Must be the dopamine flooding his brain, he thinks idly. His eyes venture down towards Geoff’s dick, curious. He finds it still tucked into his pants, undeniably hard through the layers of cloth. Ryan silently comes to a decision and grips Geoff’s arms, switching their position as fast as possible. The moment Geoff’s back hits the wall Ryan is lowering to his knees.

“Is this okay?” Ryan asks, staring up at Geoff from under his eyelashes. “It’s only fair, right?”

There’s a snort that passes from Geoff’s lips.

“Are you seriously asking me if it’s okay for you to suck my dick?” Geoff’s eyes are closed, and he’s nodding his head before it’s lolling back to rest against the wall. “Yeah. Yeah, go for it.”

Ryan quickly undoes the pants and pulls them down below the man’s hips, exposing his hard cock even more than before. As soon as he pulls down Geoff’s boxers and frees his cock, Ryan wastes no time gripping it with one hand and wrapping his mouth around the head.

Geoff feels heavy on his tongue, warm and slightly salty from what was undoubedly the precome dripping out of him while he was working Ryan towards his orgasm. The hiss that Geoff lets out the moment Ryan bobs his head and sucks is fucking unbelievable. Through it all, Ryan finds himself thinking that it’s a sound he wouldn’t mind hearing again.

He spends what feels like hours sucking and lapping at Geoff’s cock, listening for the soft sounds that Geoff makes and revelling in them completely. This stranger is addicting. Geoff’s hips buck and buck, fucking Ryan’s mouth, and the legendary Vagabond takes is willingly. God, this is it. This is exactly what he needed tonight.

“Not gonna last,” Geoff tells him. “You should― shit. You should probably move away if you don’t want me to come in your mouth.”

There’s a spark at the base of his spine; constellations expand under his ribcage. Ryan’s response is to suck harder, trying to coax the orgasm to come faster.

When it does come, spurts of come hit the back of his throat in succession, and even though he’s never been particularly fond of the taste, he swallows as much as he can, not wanting to separate himself from Geoff’s cock. He continues to suck and rub Geoff through his orgasm, and only when the man slumps against the wall does Ryan move away, mouth coming off Geoff’s cock with an audible wet pop. He spits what he can on the floor and wipes his mouth before staring up at Geoff expectantly.

“Good?” he asks, even though Geoff’s ragged breathing tells him what he needs to know.

“Amazing.” Geoff nods, and Ryan finds that unscratchable itch from earlier is completely gone. His skin still thrums with something, but he’s content. More than content. “You’ve got quite a talent.”

Ryan leans against the side of Geoff’s leg, resting against his thigh. “I’ve been told,” he says, but he thinks about bullets and body counts as opposed to the slick wetness of sex. Sometimes it’s hard to tell the difference, anyway. He decides it’s best not to bring up his profession to the man whose dick he just sucked.

“I wouldn’t be opposed to doing this again,” Geoff says with a breathless laugh, but the underlay in his tone tells Ryan that this definitely won’t be happening again. Ryan understands easily, but it's a damn shame because Geoff seems like he’d be a fantastic lay. They part ways after that, and Ryan only feels little forlorn that he didn’t get to find out just how far reaching Geoff’s tattoos were. It’s for the best though. Tomorrow Ryan does the job that he was hired for, and then he’ll be gone forever.

 

* * *

 

Ghosts of kisses and the pressure of a calloused hand at his skin haunt Ryan the following day. Even as he prepares so take on the job he was hired for, bits and pieces of the previous night dance behind his eyes as he pulls his mask over his face. The mask, which can conceal any part of him that is _Ryan_ , and only shows the Vagabond. It’s become like second nature to him, to be two people at the same time.

The Ryan of last night is gone ― should be gone ― and he shouldn’t wonder what Geoff is doing right now. That would be pointless. And yet.

Maybe it’s easier to pretend that is isn’t thinking about Geoff himself, but instead about what the man did to him. Because when it came down to it, the only thing he really knows about Geoff is that the man gives amazing handjobs in the back alley of seedy bars.

He’s the Vagabond right now. Thinking about icy blue eyes hazy with desire and delicate tattoos that move from fingertips to forearms like vines will get him nowhere.

It sure paints a lovely picture, though.

The man who hired him ― some millionaire turned wannabe syndicate tycoon who is obviously way in over his head ― doesn’t seem to notice his new hire is preoccupied. He’s certainly better off not having spent thousands of dollars for Ryan’s services, but Ryan thinks it best not to mention this to him. He’s got the money, Ryan will certainly give him that, but he lacks the tenacity, the cunningness, the ruthlessness. He doesn’t have what it takes to survive in this part of Los Santos.

The man is tapping at the glass table; a nervous tic that’s starting to grate on Ryan’s nerves. Each tap cracks Ryan’s thought process a little more. His fingers flex, itching to do some damage. The man seems to not really notice that Ryan’s head is stuck in the clouds, and is rambling on and on about his great plan. It doesn’t particularly matter to Ryan just what this guy’s plan is, as long as he gets paid in full.

This little meeting is taking place on the twenty-second floor of a very nice office building in downtown Los Santos; a true testament to just how nice this guy’s life is. Ryan is sure that he had to kiss a lot of asses and break a few laws to get where he is now, which is probably why he thinks he can rule the city with an iron fist.

He’s muttering orders to what is obviously a bunch of haphazardly hired lackeys: young, fresh faced boys that are way in over their head and have obviously never seen or wrought any destruction themselves. Yet, despite having paid all the money for Ryan’s services, he has yet to actually give Ryan a concrete order. So Ryan’s just been going where the wind blows for this whole operation thus far.

Which is how, at some point, Ryan finds himself in the back of a car with three other people, going to do this fucking job that brought him to this city in the first place. He’s idly playing with the clip of his gun, paying no mind to the kid next to him who seems to be absolutely shitting himself at being next to the Vagabond.

Apparently Mister Wannabe Boss actually has a few targets he wants to get rid of before he, as he’d so eloquently put it, “cracks down on the city.” One of those targets is the precinct captains of the LSPD, which is just fucking great. Ryan hates dealing with the cops, and the people that have been hired to help complete this little mission seem to be scared out of their goddamn minds.

It’s became obviously apparent that they’re all unprepared idiots, and Ryan has to try his best to clear his head so that he can manage to get out of this mess alive. If he’s not careful, he knows there’s a possibility that these people will end up getting him killed. This sham of a crew hired him probably because they wanted someone experience or someone with an actual reputation on their side for at least a moment to kick things up off the ground. Problem is that they made the very stupid decision to go after a fucking cop as their first job.

The car pulls into a multi-floor parking lot that’s frequented by the police officers whose building is right next door. Ryan snaps the clip of his gun back into place and steps out of the car, looking down the desolate pathway that will soon be wrought with death and destruction.

As he’s weighing his options and possible getaways ― which, in an upper level of a parking lot, are few and far between ― a small cluster of other cars pull up, and some other crew members come pouring out, holding guns in their hands and looking like they’ve never held one in their life. Ryan feels annoyance bubbling in his chest. Jesus, this isn’t going to end well.

“We’re going in guns blazing,” someone says, and Ryan assumes it’s probably their so-called leader for the moment ― he doesn’t really care. “You get that?”

There are murmurs of agreement among the others, and Ryan just doesn’t bother to deign anyone with a response. Instead he eyes the edge of the parking lot, wondering if he could survive the jump. When in doubt, he could always hang off the side and hope no one notices his hands gripping the edge. This is a terrible plan. Not that Ryan legitimately cared anyway, because if there’s anything Ryan is good at, it’s surviving.

“Shit, he’s walking out of the building! Get in positions,” someone hisses, and suddenly everyone is shuffling to hide behind cars. Ryan rolls his eyes at their inexperience and then rolls underneath the most inconspicuous car he can find. It’s a large car that had been here before they’d even arrived, so Ryan already knows it won’t cause suspicion and can hopefully take a few bullets.

After a few minutes there’s the pitter patter of feet, someone shouts, and then everyone is off.

Predictably, the mission goes terribly.

Almost immediately after the first shots ring out, cops are pouring out of the police station and moving towards the parking lot. Not only that, but the precinct captain is still alive. Ryan ends up shooting half a dozen people in the head and snapping the necks of a few others after he comes out of his hiding spot, but he can see his “team” dropping like flies. Someone manages to graze his arm with a bullet before Ryan shoots back with a much better aim.

Ryan rolls back behind another vehicle and pokes his head out for a brief moment to get his bearings. He can see the precinct captain huddled behind a car a little ways away, now seeming to be nursing a gunshot wound in his shoulder. Oh, someone actually managed to hit the intended target. How surprising. Still, the target isn’t dead yet, so Ryan holds up his gun and takes aim. The captain still hasn’t noticed that he’s being stalked, and hasn’t moved position much, so Ryan pauses for a brief moment, takes a breath, and shoots.

Glass shatters and a body goes tumbling to the floor. Amidst all the chaos, no one has actually paid any mind to the thud of a body, and so Ryan carefully sneaks over to the body to make sure the job has been done. Glassy eyes stare back at him as Ryan watches the precinct captain lay in a pool of his own blood.

Great. Mission complete. Now Ryan can get the fuck out of here. He quickly moves behind a large van that easily provides decent cover, ignoring the sting of the gunshot wound he’d gotten at some point and trying to think up an exit strategy. It’s just a graze, it doesn’t matter much. Ryan really doesn’t give a shit anymore, he’s leaving this fucking parking lot, no matter who it is he has to kill to get out of there.

Ryan is maneuvering his way around fallen bodies and makes his way over to a door that’ll lead to a staircase. The calvary all seems to have arrived, because no one else is exiting the police station, so Ryan really isn’t worried about getting ambushed. Still he can actually hear police cars in the distance, meaning that reinforcements are on their way, so time to get away is limited.

The moment he shoulders his way through the metal door, someone on the other side is pointing a gun at him and shooting blindly.

Okay, so apparently Ryan had been incorrect in his assumption that there wasn’t anymore immediate help on the way. An error on his part, he’ll admit. A sudden shock of pain blooms in his abdomen, and Ryan quickly raises his own gun and shoots the man who’d been wildly shooting. The bullet cuts through the man’s eye, blood splattering everywhere, and he collapses to the floor.

“Fuck,” Ryan hisses, pressing his bare hand against the wound.

He kicks the body to the side and starts stumbling down the staircase. By now, most of the people who hired him are probably dead, and the ones that don’t are running away from the parking lot for their shitty little lives. Ryan, even with a bullet lodged in his side, manages to get his hands one one of those getaway vehicles they’d brought and decided to leave near the entrance for some fucking reason, not really caring if some people get left behind.

He hops into the driver’s seat, only to find there aren’t any keys in sight. Well, shit.

Hot wiring is car is not all that difficult once you get it down to a science, even if you are currently bleeding out via gunshot wound. Making quick work of it, he drives away from the thick fog of death and through the Los Santos streets, veering away from the carnage and ignoring anyone else on the road as his mind starts to get fuzzy and he sees white spots behind his eyes.

His wound still hurts like a bitch though, which is actually a good sign. Ryan has dealt with bullet wounds, stab wounds, any wound really, and he knows that if he isn’t in pain, that is not a good sign. It means he hasn’t lost enough blood to start becoming delirious, and he has some time to try and come up with a solution. Blood is still oozing out of his wound, and he can’t be sure if the bullet struck anything important, but that all has to take a back burner to his current issue: he needs to get away before police arrive and arrest him.

Perhaps the fact that he’s willing to die rather than get captured by police is a testament to his mental state, but Ryan doesn’t really care right now. His foot is pressing against the pedal of the car so hard that it can’t go further, and he’s bumping through the streets at over a hundred miles per hour, which keeps jarring the fucking bullet wound.

He drives for as long as possible, but when it becomes obvious that he can either chose to die by accidentally veering the car into an upheaval that’ll probably kill him, or stop on the side of the road and try not to bleed out and come up with a plan, the choice is a simple one. All that he fucking knows is that going to a hospital is not an option.

Ryan ends up making his way into a deserted part of town and hits the break, somehow managing to come to a stop without killing himself in the process. He climbs out of the car and just as quickly realizes how bad on an idea that it. So he shuffles further down the car, leaving the door the door open while he instead gets into the back so he can at least lie down. If he’s going to die, might as well do it comfortably.

Just as he lays flat on his back, he notices something that can help him. A t-shirt is sticking out of the back pocket of the passenger's side seat, and Ryan snatches it and presses it against the wound ― hard ― to stifle the bleeding, to bide him more time.

His motel room is a good ways away from here and he doubts he can walk into the nearest craft store to buy a thread and needle without drawing attention to himself. The hand not pressing tightly against his abdomen falls to the floor of the car, and hits something. Ryan glances down at the item and blinks.

Duct tape.

Well. It’s crude, but it’s the best Ryan can manage right now. He pushes himself back further, until he’s almost sitting, back against the car door, and plucks the tape off the car floor. It’s hard work to wrap the tape around his middle, but Ryan manages to shuck off his jacket and pull up his blood soaked shirt. He uses the cleaner t-shirt he found in the car to try and wipe away as much excess blood as he can, and then starts taping himself. One, two, three times he wraps the tape around his body, uncomfortably tight. He’s silent all the while, but the pain that pulsates through his body is unbearable. Still, it stops the bleeding.

One problem solved.

Ryan still needs to figure out how to get back to his motel, where he keeps supplies on hand for situations just like this one, but the pain is making it hard to think with a clear mind. Okay so. Maybe he lost more blood than he initially thought. He can’t _think_ , and he knows his future is starting to look more and more bleak. It feels like hours before his consciousness starts to truly slip, but for all Ryan knows it’s only been a few minutes.

Somewhere in between getting into the back of the car and passing out, Ryan has a moment to thank any possible gods that his last sexual adventure happened in a dingy alley with a captivating stranger, and also wonders if he watered that little succulent he keeps with him. He figures that last bit is thanks to the delirium setting in because of the blood loss.

He doesn't get to think much else before losing consciousness.

 

* * *

 

The thing about losing a lot of blood is that time no longer truly exists. So when he’s woken up by a sharp slap to the face, Ryan doesn’t really know if he was actually unconscious or just so out of it that he didn’t notice anything going on around him. His eyes snap open to see the ruddy face of a woman hovering over him, practically straddling him in the back of the car. Ryan blinks, trying to think, trying to get his bearings, when the woman who’d slapped him speaks.

“Can you get up?” she asks, and he can feel her arms digging underneath his shirt. For a moment he thinks she might be feeling him up or something, but then he realizes she seems to have been looking at his wound. She blinks at the duct tape, but doesn’t comment on it. Ryan doesn’t answer her at first, so she repeats herself. “Hey. Can you get up?

Ryan tries, he really does, but the moment he lifts his back off the car seat ― which results in blood that he hadn't been able to wipe away to go dripping down to the small of his back ― his abdomen blooms with pain. The duct tape had only been a quick fix, after all “No.” His voice is hoarse and light, and Ryan hates feeling this weak.

The woman purses her lips, and Ryan watches through the holes of his mask, wondering who the hell she is. He’d been bleeding fairly profusely before he had figured out how to stop it, so anyone in their right mind should be finding this bloody situation a little shocking. This woman though, despite the worry that Ryan can see shining in her eyes, seems to be assessing the situation almost clinically. She might be a nurse or doctor of some kind. Or maybe she's just used to the bloodiness that comes from living in this city.

He watches her reach down and lift up his shirt completely, looking at his taped abdomen with a hard gaze. She’s mumbling under her breath, saying words that Ryan can’t really make out. She seems to come to a decision and takes her hand into a fist and presses it lightly against the wound, as if trying to assess it through the same. But suddenly it’s hurting way more than it had been a minute ago, which Ryan assumes is a good sign. It means his body hasn't given up on him quite yet.

“My name’s Jack,” she says, “Come on, I’ll help you up. Try to move with me.”

Ryan wordlessly allows himself to be peeled off the back of the car, ignoring the slick blood running down his body, and doing his best to fight through the pain bursting in his side. Jack forces him to lean against her, and despite the fact that she’s shorter than him by at least a head, she manages to physically drag him outside of the car and the two hobble over to what seems to be her van. She leans him against the side of the van while she goes over and pops the trunk open, dragging Ryan into the back of it. He’s placed on his side and she’s pulling up his shirt ― ignoring the mask completely, something Ryan is thankful for even though.

“Not ideal, but I’m stitching you shut to stop the bleeding. I’ll get the bullet out later, but it’s pretty imperative I get the bleeding to stop,” Jack tells him, reaching over him to grab what looks to be a first aid kit. She pops it open and before Ryan knows it, she’s pouring pouring alcohol into a cloth and rubbing the blood away from the his body. She takes a small pair of scissors an cut the duct tape before wiping the cloth directly over his wound. Ryan hisses in pain. Fuck that hurts.

“A little warning would have been nice,” he manages to slur. This goes ignored by Jack, who is busying herself threading the needle. It’s hooked. Definitely made to go through flesh.

“Don’t move,” she instructs him, and suddenly there’s a needle going through his flesh. The pain of the needle is buried under the pain of the bullet wound, and even when she’s pulling the twine and bringing his split flesh back together, he doesn’t really notice anyway. It looks absolutely disgusting though.

Ryan has had to stitch himself together in the past, and he’s never really been fond of it. Jack is clinical though, and does a quick job of it, which only makes her more mysterious. Yes, Ryan thinks, she must definitely be a nurse. Or, at the very least, have some experience with medical procedures.

Still, it doesn’t stop the blood loss from almost making him pass out every few minutes. Jack does her best to keep him awake, either with small talk or hard slaps to the face, but Ryan’s eyelids feel heavy from behind the mask. When he’s pressing gauze into the wound, Ryan’s eyes flutter shut.

 _Well,_ he thinks idly. His last thought, most likely. _Well, at least she’d tried._

 

* * *

 

His mind feels so fuzzy that Ryan is almost positive that this isn’t real. There’s no pain, not really, and his fingers tingle. A voice starts tickling at his consciousness, and Ryan strains his ears to try and hear whoever it is. It takes him a minute to make sense of the sounds penetrating his ear, but after a moment he can understand what’s being said.

“We’re leaving the mask on,” a voice says, and Ryan vaguely wonders if he’s dead. Probably.

“But Jack, I don’t think this is a good idea―” comes another voice that he doesn’t recognize, hesitant and apprehensive, but Jack cuts whoever is speaking off before they really get to say anything else to her with a hard tone.

“We’re leaving the fucking mask on,” she’s repeating firmly. “I don’t care what you take off him, but the mask stays. At least until he’s awake enough to consent to us seeing his face. Think about it, Trevor, what reason would you wear a mask to a shootout? You don’t want your face to be seen. I’d really hate having to kill this guy after we’re working so hard to save his life just because he gets some vendetta against us for looking at his face.”

“I see your point,” Trevor says, voice coming out in a mumble. “Geoff isn’t gonna be happy, though.”

A laugh. It sounds like a bell. “And when have I ever listened to a damn word Geoff has said?”

If this is the afterlife, Ryan likes Jack being here for some inexplicable reason. He’s firmly decided this when he passes out again.

 

* * *

 

The next time that Ryan wakes up, it’s to a dull thrum of pain in his abdomen and now Ryan knows that he isn’t actually dead. If he were dead, he doubts that he would have his fucking skull mask plastered to his face, hot and uncomfortable against his flesh; if he were dead, he wouldn’t have a splitting headache right now. But he’s evidently not dead, so he’ll take the uncomfort over death for now. The first thing Ryan sees when his eyes open and adjust to the brightness of the room is an old fan spinning on the ceiling. Huh. He’d half expected to still be in the middle of the desert with Jack poking and prodding at his wound.

“Where am I?” he croaks, hoping someone might be in the room with him to hear him and start explaining some things to him.

His body feels fucking sore as hell, and he isn’t going to even attempt to move his head to get a look at the rest of the room. Luckily a face pops up in his peripheral: a thin boy with dark hair and wide eyes is staring down at him nervously. He’s wearing scrubs, and Ryan wonders if he’s in a hospital right now. A glance at his arms says otherwise when he finds them free of IV needles or identification bracelets.

“You’re awake,” the guys says, sounding a little shocked and like he was talking more to himself than to Ryan. “Uh, I’m Trevor. Shit, I’ll go tell Jack you’re up. She’s in a meeting with Geoff right now. Just―just wait here while I get her.”

Ryan refrains from informing the kid that there’s really nowhere he can even go in his state, and manages a noncommittal hum before the kid disappears out of the room to unknown parts of the building. The next few minutes go by in silence, Ryan watching the fan spin and spin and spin, as there’s nothing to do because the room is completely blank. He then spends a moment to look down at himself, finding that at some point between Jack finding him and now that most of his clothing has been removed, and that there are actual bandages around the wound in his stomach. Interesting.

He’s wondering for just how long he’s been unconscious when Jack finally shows up, hair pinned away from her face and eyes twinkling. She comes up to him, hands clasping his arms tightly. Behind her enters Trevor, staying back and staring at Ryan wearily like he’s about to try and murder him with his bare hands. Ryan holds in a snort at the look.

Perhaps he knows who he’s in the company of.

 _No,_  Ryan thinks, _there’s no way._ No one knows the Vagabond in Los Santos yet.

“You’re up,” she says. “Good. We’ve got a lot to talk about.”

“I’d imagine,” Ryan says dryly. Then he says, almost casually, “You left the mask on. I’m a little surprised by that.”

A memory teases at his mind, something about Jack ordering people to leave on the mask. He doesn’t know if it was completely fabricated or not.

Jack nods, and her face is carefully blank. “We did. That was one of the things I wanted to talk to you about. I know you always wear the mask. No one’s ever really seen your face, and you may have been running rampant through the city in recent days, but I do respect that.”

“I’m sensing there’s a but here,” Ryan quips, and he’s right. Jack blinks and then bites her lip, staring down at the ground and trying her best not to fidget.

“Well,” Jack starts, and Ryan understands  immediately.

“You want to take it off,” Ryan says, filling in the blanks. He’s not surprised, not really, but it doesn’t mean he has to like what she’s suggesting. And he doesn’t. Not at all. However, a moment later he also realizes that Jack had said she knew he always wore the mask, which means she knew he was the Vagabond. She must have known who he was immediately upon seeing him, and yet still made the decision to help him.

“For medical purposes,” Jack says. “Need to check your head. I’ll respect your decision if you say no, though.”

Ryan bites down on his tongue, and comes to a decision. “Only if he leaves,” he says after a moment, head jutting over towards Trevor. He doesn’t trust the boy at all.

Jack blinks, as if she hadn’t really been expecting that answer, but she turns to fix Trevor with a look and then the kid is fleeing from the room like something bit his ass. After they’re alone she sits on the edge of the bed and her hands inch forward, curling around the base of the mask just underneath his jaw, and slowly pulling it off. Ryan finds the cooler air hitting his face refreshing. He can feel his hair sticking to his forehead, slick with sweat. For a brief moment he can see Jack taking in his features with something akin to surprise before it’s carefully concealed. Jack wordlessly stands up, places the mask on the nightstand next to the bed, and pulls on a pair of latex gloves from the drawer before she makes her way back over to Ryan and checks over his head.

“Does your head hurt?” she asks. “I saw you driving like a maniac before you stopped, so I’m a little worried you may have jarred your head or hurt your neck somehow, or gotten a concussion during the drive.”

Ryan shakes his head. “No. Hurts like hell, but I’m pretty sure it’s not because of that.”

Jack hums and her hands come off of his head, moving over to his neck and feeling at the skin there. Ryan is silent while she does so, but something that she’d said just seems to stick with him. She said she saw him driving before he’d stopped, so that had to heave meant she was close by that day.

“Jack,” Ryan starts. “Did you… were you there that day, or something?”

“When you got shot?” Jack asks, eyes blinking. “I wasn't there, but I did happen to be on my way somewhere and saw you driving like a lunatic. Followed you until you stopped the car and got out, and then I saw you were hurt so I went over to help.” She finishes her explanation with a shrug, as if her decision was a simple one.

“Was it like a Hippocratic Oath thing?” Ryan asks. Jack blinks in surprise. “You seem like such a doctor, is all.”

“I’m not. I’m a nurse―or, I almost was. Didn’t exactly pan out. But to correct you, nurses actually take a Nightingale Pledge. Very similar in nature though,” Jack says, pulling away and tugging the gloves off her hands. “So we removed the bullet and stitched the wound up. We also pumped you with a pint of blood to make up for the blood loss. And, plus side of being involved with illegal business, we also gave you some opioids to help with the pain.”

“They’re not really helping,” Ryan says plainly.

Jack rolls her eyes in response. “I didn’t want to give you too high a dose and make your body freak out. Just be glad I didn’t leave you without something to help for the pain. It wouldn’t have been that bad of a wound, but all that movement made the bullet shift and that’s why you were bleeding a lot.”

Jack turns around and picks up the mask off of the nightstand, holding it in her hands like it’s about to detonate. She stares at it for a brief moment and then she hands the mask right back to him. “You can put it back on, if you’d like, Vagabond.”

“So you do know who I am,” Ryan muses, taking the mask out of her hands. Jack doesn’t respond, so Ryan purses his lips and says, “Thank you, I suppose.”

Ryan does pull the mask back over his head, and it’s just in time to because that’s when someone else walks into the room. Someone that he recognizes the moment he glances up into his eyes. Icy blue. Like the night before. Geoff. Well shit, that really does complicate things a little, doesn’t it?

Geoff makes his way over to the edge of the bed, but he’s stiff and closed off. Such a stark difference from the man that he sucked off the night before. He’s wearing a nicely pressed suit not unlike the one from the other night, but without a wrinkle in sight ― not at all looking like the rumpled mess from before.

He looks… powerful.

“You’ve caused me a lot of fucking trouble, you know,” Geoff starts, and the familiar voice sends a slight tingle up Ryan’s spine. That might be the bullet wound though. Who knows. “The only reason you’re alive is because Jack is persuasive as dicks.”

“Dicks can be persuasive,” Ryan says, and immediately hopes that Geoff recognizes his voice for some reason. He blames it on the drugs. Geoff doesn’t, and Ryan doesn’t know if he’s relieved of not.

“Cute,” Geoff responds drly. “Gavin pretty much had a fucking aneurysm when he heard we’d brought the Vagabond in the building, fucking refused to come anywhere near this part of this wing of the base. You have my newly imported hacker fucking hiding in a cabinet somewhere. I don’t even know where the hell he is right now.”

“Sorry,” Ryan says, but he feels anything but. “Where am I exactly?”

“Fake AH base,” Jack answers for Geoff who looks gruff and not at all in a chatty mood.

“The Fake’s base,” Ryan repeats incredulously, talking mostly to himself.

The Fake AH Crew is rapidly becoming a pretty big deal around Los Santos. Ryan knows a few things about the Fakes. They’re not at the top of the foodchain quite yet, but with the way they’ve been going, Ryan wouldn’t be surprised if they overthrow the current rulers of Los Santos within the year. He doesn’t know much else about the crew except the codenames of the leaders: the Kingpin and the Overlord. Ominous names, and well deserved in Ryan’s opinion. Their body count has been on the steady rise since they came on the scene, and he does actually respect them. They’re tactical but unpredictable.

Ryan knows this, and so something that Geoff says gets stuck in Ryan’s head. My imported hacker. _My_. No, there’s absolutely no way. Ryan refuses to believe that he gave the Kingpin a fucking blowjob the other night. There’s just no fucking way. But…

“You're the Kingpin,” Ryan says, and when Geoff only gives him a look that screams more of course I am you idiot than no I’m not, Ryan knows that he truly is the Kingpin. Shit. His eyes shift over to Jack then, and he has another less life altering realization. “Does that make you the Overlord?”

Jack wrinkles her nose, but suddenly Ryan can see that air of power fluctuations around her. “I never did like that name. I really prefered the Beard. Geoff said it sounded less threatening and also like I was his beard. Not really a secret that the ruler of the Fakes likes dick though, so I don’t know what he’s freaking out about.”

“I wasn’t freaking out,” Geoff argues, looking like this is definitely a conversation that has been had in the past. He gives up though, releasing an exasperated sigh before dragging his gaze back over to Ryan. “So, Vagabond, we’ve got a few questions for you, if you don't mind answering them.”

“How shocking,” Ryan drolls out. “Fine. Go ahead.”

“Who hired you and what was if for?”

Ryan rattles off the name of the man that had picked him up because really, a good portion of his men were dead already and Ryan had the money he was promised, so he couldn’t have cared less. He gives a brief run down of the job he was initially hired for, and the tragic ending of that stupid crew. If Geoff is surprised at Ryan’s willingness to give up information about people who hired him, than he doesn’t show it. Instead he purses his lips, looking at Ryan but not really seeing him, and then seems to come to a decision.

“You owe me,”―Jack coughs, and Geoff changes his words immediately―” _Jack_. You owe Jack for saving your ass back there. So, we’ll make you a deal that you’d do well to consider.”

“What did you have in mind?” Ryan asks, and Geoff’s grin reminds him of the night before. Fierce and wicked and full of not good ideas.


End file.
